


The Wolves Of Zaroff

by thecomedownchampion, Weak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, First Kiss, Ignoring Season 4, M/M, Post - 3b, Thriller, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomedownchampion/pseuds/thecomedownchampion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weak/pseuds/Weak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles closes his eyes and swallows hard before he looks at Derek again. With a barely-steady voice, he asks, “Have you ever heard of The Most Dangerous Game?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolves Of Zaroff

**Author's Note:**

> I have blatantly changed a couple of minor things that happened in 3B for the sake of my sanity. There are discussions of post traumatic stress in this. 
> 
> This is unbeta-ed, so just let me know if there are any cock-ups and I'll gladly fix them! The title is a play on the alternative name for 'The Most Dangerous Game' by Richard Connell: 'The Hounds of Zaroff.'

**_“Man is the most dangerous animal of all to kill.”_ **

**_-the Zodiac Killer_ **

 

 

The pain throbs in time with his pulse, pressing against the back of his eyes and reverberating through his skull. He groans with it and reaches with one weak hand to feel the back of his head, the epicenter, and his fingers come away wet with blood. The air is stale, stagnant, and it smells of blood, dirt, hay, feces, and mould. There are other scents that he can’t identify, but they aren’t his first priority. Squinting, he opens his eyes to orient himself in his strange setting. He’s lying curled up on his side on dirty pavement surrounded by thick, metal bars. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turns his head to look up; the cage is just a little too small for him to completely straighten his legs and if his depth perception can be trusted, the roof is slightly too short for him to stand at his full height.

He works an elbow beneath his ribs and props himself up, blinking rapidly and taking deep breaths to combat the nausea as his head is lifted upright. When his hands are beneath him, he drags himself toward the bars where he sees the latch of the door. He peers out and sees five other cages: one on either side of his own and three across the hall from his. Two are occupied; the cage directly across from his own and the cage to the left of it. As for what’s outside the cages, it looks like they’re in a gutted barn, unilluminated by the few old, bare bulbs that hang lifelessly from the ceiling. His eyes shift back to the other cages’ inhabitants. Neither of them are moving and he can’t make out their features.

“Derek?” he hisses. “Are you here? Derek?”

One of the figures shifts and a scruffy face peers out at him from the cage across the hallway and to the left. “Stiles?”

He exhales a guilty sigh of relief and says, “Oh thank God.”

Derek sits up, taking in his surroundings. “How long was I out?” he asks.

Stiles pulls back the sleeve of his plaid shirt only to find a bare wrist. “I don’t know,” he tells Derek. “They must have taken my watch.”

“You’re bleeding,” Derek says, eyes searching his features.

Stiles’ hand reflexively goes to touch the back of his head with a wince; the blood is clotting and drying in his hair. “Yeah, thanks for the public service announcement. Smell anything that’s actually useful?”

The way Derek raises his head to sniff the air reminds Stiles of the German Shepherds the State Police brought in, when they were looking for the top half of Laura Hale’s body. “Wolfsbane,” Derek says, “gunpowder… and the bars are reinforced with mountain ash.”

“Hunters,” Stiles says darkly.

Derek nods, gaze wandering. “We’re not in town; I don’t hear any cars.”

“If they kept our phones, Scott could get Danny to track their GPS signals.”

A chuckle comes from the cage across from Stiles’ and a male voice says, “Your friends won’t find you, kid.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “And who are you?”

The man sits up, scratching at the ginger stubble growing along his jaw. He appears to be in his mid-thirties. “Call me Roy. I’m from the Ramirez pack in Sacramento.”

“Okay, Roy. What makes you think no one’s coming to save us?” Stiles asks.

“I didn’t say no one would come,” Roy says with a shrug. “But there are twelve ‘wolves in my pack and I’ve been here a week. Something’s keeping them off the trail. What pack are you from?”

“Hale,” says Stiles.

Roy raises his eyebrows with genuine surprise. “The _Hale_ pack? I thought the only survivors headed up to New York.”  

“We did,” Derek says quietly.

Roy turns to him, as if noticing his presence for the first time. He examines Derek’s face and says, “Yeah, I see Talia in you.”

“So what’s happening here? What’s the deal with these hunters?” Stiles asks, trying to draw the conversation away from Derek’s deceased family.

“I don’t know,” says Roy. “They come by to feed me once a day and that’s it. I was the only one here until they brought you two in.”

Stiles and Derek exchange glances. “They didn’t mean to grab you,” says Derek. “I don’t think they know you’re human.”

Stiles nods. “I think so too. Let’s not clue them in on that fact, shall we? They won’t expect me to be able to reach past the bars.”

“I don’t know what good that’ll do kid,” Roy says, shaking his head. “You’re what, sixteen, seventeen? These are experienced hunters. They know what the hell they’re doing.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retaliate, but Derek beats him to it. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

Stiles blinks with astonishment. By now he knows that there is mutual respect between him and Derek, but still he did not expect the verbal acknowledgement of it from the surly werewolf. Roy looks at him with some consideration now, but whatever he’s thinking, he holds his tongue. They lapse into a silence then, and now that the throbbing in Stiles’ head has eased off into a persistent ache, he begins to take closer account of their surroundings. There’s a narrow window high up on the wall down the hall from Derek’s cell. The glass is filthy, but low-level light is still shining through, indicating that the sun must be setting. There’s a set of stairs leading up to a loft at the end of the hall. Down the other way, to Stiles’ right, is the door to the barn. The light switch is next to the door. When the boredom settles in, Stiles lays down, closing his eyes and pillowing his head on one arm.

“Stiles,” says Derek.

“What?” he mumbles.

“Don’t go to sleep.”

He opens his eyes to frown at Derek.

“You’re concussed,” Derek explains.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” Stiles sighs and resigns himself to lying awake, waiting for fate to come to him. He hates it.

 

Long after darkness has fallen, there’s a metallic click. Stiles opens his eyes, suddenly alert. It didn’t sound like a gun being cocked, in fact it sounded like…

The door to Roy’s cage squeaks as the werewolf cautiously pushes it open the rest of the way, glowing red eyes searching. Stiles sits up and leans close to the bars of his own cage. He watches as Roy slowly slips out of the cell.

“Roy,” Stiles whispers. “Don’t go.”

The red eyes flicker over to Stiles and Roy says, “I’m going to get my pack and we’re going to come back for you.”

“Roy, no. I think it’s a trap.”

“I have the advantage,” says Roy. “They don’t have night vision. And I’ll be able to hear them and smell them.” He begins to creep toward the barn door.

“No, listen to Stiles. I think he’s right,” Derek says. “If you leave the barn, you’re playing right into their hands. Wait for them to come to you first.”

Roy creeps toward the barn door silently and pauses in front of it to scent the air, listening carefully for any movement beyond it. Dread fills Stiles’ gut when the werewolf deems it’s safe and opens the door, slipping through and out into the shadows beyond. Stiles turns to Derek and finds his own unease reflected in Derek’s eyes. They wait quietly, gazes alternating between the door and each other. Stiles has a bad feeling about this. There’s no way the hunters are just letting Roy out. There has to be something more. With his watch gone, there’s no sense of time. Minutes could have passed, hours.

A sharp scream pierces the night, agonized, and it trails into a feral snarl. Stiles grips the bars of his cage tightly, knuckles turning white, and he grinds his teeth together to hold in the fear that sets his heart racing. Derek’s face has gone pale and he looks pinched. They stare at each other in mirror images of horror as they listen to roars and growls, intermittently punctuated with screams. There’s a background soundtrack of voices shouting, but they don’t hear the thundering of gunfire. Every so often, Stiles can make out speech in Roy’s cries. “ _No_ ”s and threats, calls for aid. Gradually, the screams overrun the animal sounds until finally, Roy falls silent and all that’s left is the laughter.

Stiles closes his eyes and swallows hard before he looks at Derek again. With a barely-steady voice, he asks, “Have you ever heard of _The Most Dangerous Game?_ ”

 

Three months ago, a nogitsune was expelled from Stiles’ body and Allison Argent died. Stiles’ father acquired the security tapes from the hospital of the night of the massacre and made sure they never saw the light of day. Ethan left Beacon Hills and Stiles wasn’t sorry to see the back of him. Danny has been brought into the fold and Lydia clings to him and Scott for support. A lot of people have been seeking out Scott for support between Lydia, Isaac, Stiles, Kira, and Malia. Stiles tries not to go to Scott often and a little of the pressure lessened after the second month when Malia perfected her shift and decided to go her own way, but he could see how it weighted Scott down, trying to take care of his mix-and-matched pack while coping with his own grief. Stiles wondered at first who Scott went to for support. He later found out it was Derek.

It was kind of funny in a not so funny way, how a year ago, all Derek wanted was for them to be brothers, to be Scott’s guide, and the teen resisted with all of his stubborn might, and now they have what Derek always wanted because of shared hardship. Because Derek knows exactly what Scott is going through right now.

After Stiles saw Scott go to Derek, one month after the nogitsune was sealed away and buried beneath the Nemeton by Deaton, he knew he had to find a source of solace other than Scott. He couldn’t keep weighing his best friend down. His father was amazing and supportive, but he wasn’t equipped to deal with what Stiles went through. The nightmares Stiles suffered from in the aftermath of his sacrifice were sweet daydreams compared to the terrors that plague his sleep now. The worst part is that most of them aren’t figments of his imagination, but memories of the atrocities the nogitsune committed with his own two hands. It reaches a breaking point when Stiles has gone a week with only two hours of sleep, total.

He goes to Deaton to acquire an address, and then he goes to Marin Morrell.

“Emissaries exist to keep balance,” Stiles said when she opened the door. “You go where people need you, don’t you? First you were at the school when Lydia and I needed you, then you were at Eichen House when Meredith and Malia needed you. Now I need you again and I know you don’t have that psychology degree for nothing. Will you help me?”

Morrell had smiled that small, enigmatic smile so reminiscent of her brother’s and opened the door wider, saying, “Come in, Stiles.”

After that, Stiles began going to Morrell twice a week for therapy sessions, for lack of a better word. He also found unlikely solace in Lydia and Derek, who dropped by every so often to check up on him. They know a thing or two about expropriated agency. Stiles would even go so far to say that he and Derek are friends now, and not just friends of convenience or circumstance either. They have their own inside jokes.

They were on their way out of a twenty-four hour convenience store near Derek’s apartment when they were apprehended. Stiles held the bag with the snacks and Derek had the rental DVD of _X-Men: First Class_. They stopped outside of Derek’s Toyota while he fished his keys out of his pocket to unlock the vehicle, then a dart came out of seemingly nowhere and imbedded itself in the side of Derek’s neck. Their eyes met and Stiles called out Derek’s name in alarm, running around the hood of the car to him as the werewolf’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the pavement. Stiles knelt over him and then pain exploded through the back of his skull. There was a fraction of a second, a snatched fragment of time when Stiles thought distantly, _I’ve been shot_ , and then he fell into darkness and knew nothing more.

 

“Yes,” says Derek. “It’s a short story by Richard Connell.”

“A big-game hunter falls off his boat and swims out to a secluded island where he meets a retired hunter who lives there with his servant and hunting dogs,” says Stiles. “The retired hunter tells him how he grew bored of hunting big-game, so he captures shipwrecked men, supplying them with food, clothes, and a weapon before setting them off in the jungle.”

Derek says solemnly, “And then he hunts _them._ ”

 

Neither of them sleep that night. If Stiles feels drowsy from his concussion, Derek barks at him to stay awake. Though they don’t think the hunters will come for them tonight, Derek keeps vigil, eyes glowing blue and sitting erect as he listens for any noises that are out of place. If Stiles had more energy and he hadn’t just listened to a man die, he might make a Lassie joke. But as things are, he doesn’t much feel like joking at all. The night drags on for long hours and Stiles shivers from the cold. His mouth is dry and the need to urinate is gradually increasing.

In the silence, the old Stiles would have begun pestering Derek by now, demanding him to help devise an escape plan and, upon being ignored, making progressively rude comments until Derek pays him attention, usually by snapping with anger. But of course, this isn’t the same Derek either. It’s another source of irony, Stiles thinks, that Derek seems to have become a more stable individual while Stiles is the one who has to fight to hold himself together. It’s getting easier though. His sessions with Morrell help, as well as the time he spends with his dad, Scott, Derek, and Lydia.

Or it _was_ easier.

Stiles curls in on himself, fingers slipping through his own hair. His eyes fall closed and he lets out a long breath before saying, “I’m getting really sick of this.”

“Sick of what?” asks Derek.

“This damsel in distress routine.”

Derek snorts.

“I mean it.” Stiles sits up, counting in his head. “There’s the time your psychotic uncle kidnapped me; when Argent’s hunter grabbed me at my dad’s station while I was trying to save Isaac, who then ended up saving me from the hunter, and then _you_ had to save me from _Isaac_ ; the time Matt had us paralyzed on the floor with Jackson the murder lizard—which, by the way, sounds like the title of a horribly inappropriate kids’ show. There was the time Allison’s grandpa kidnapped me and beat the shit out of me to make a point to Scott, just a few months ago I was possessed by a chaotic fox spirit, and now I’m Sanger Rainsford with General Zaroff the werewolf hunter. I am literally surprised I wasn’t one of the Darach’s virgin sacrifices, because that’s the only way my life could be worse. Then we could have an abduction for every time shit has gone down in Beacon Hills—that is, if you count demonic possession as abduction. I don’t know; I was trapped inside my own head, so this is pretty esoteric.”

“Do you really want to make this a contest of who has the shittier life?” says Derek, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re the one talking about contests,” Stiles points out.

“You wouldn’t win anyway.”

“I’m still young yet.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth lifts up with grim amusement. “True.”

They lapse back into silence and watch as the interior of the barn slowly lights up with the sunrise, light trickling in through the filthy window pane like water pouring into a new container. Derek parts his lips like he’s going to speak, but it takes another full minute before he gets the words out.

“You’re more like you right now.” Derek clarifies, “Before the nogitsune.”

Stiles clicks his tongue thoughtfully. “To be honest, right now I’m less scared than I’ve been in months.”

Derek looks down at his hands where they rest in his lap. “When everything’s peaceful, you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop; for the illusion to come crashing down around you. And when disaster finally strikes, that’s it. You don’t have to wait anymore. The inevitable has already happened, so you just have to deal with the fallout, and you’re used to that by now.”

Stiles blinks at Derek, taking in the sardonic half-smile on the werewolf’s lips. “Exactly,” Stiles says.

The smile widens fractionally and Derek says, “Post traumatic stress is a bitch.”

It startles a laugh out of Stiles. “We are _so_ fucked up.”

Derek is outright grinning now, and Stiles can’t help but smile right back at him.

Whatever moment they’re having is shattered when Derek suddenly sits up straight and says, “Someone’s coming.”

Stiles carefully places himself in the middle of the cage, crossing his legs and clasping his hands together so that they won’t betray him by passing the mountain ash. He turns his head toward the door to hide the blood that has dried and matted in his hair. Moments later, the door opens to reveal two men, both white. They both appear similar in age, in their late forties. One man is clean-shaven while the other is bearded with coarse, dark brown hair. The similar shape of their slightly crooked noses and the matching grey eyes suggests they’re brothers. They’re dressed in plain clothes and the shaven brother is carrying two buckets while the other has bottles of water under his arms and twelve inch sub sandwiches in his hands. The bucket brother walks over to Stiles’ cage and kicks at the door. Stiles doesn’t flinch; just watches him impassively. The man smirks.

“See, this is the one I was telling you about,” the man says to his brother. “Beautiful mouth, perfect lips. I tell you, if he wasn’t a mutt…” He trails off into a chuckle, making the bearded brother grin.

Stiles smiles at them sardonically. “Scared of a little teeth? I’ve heard it can add enhance the experience, especially if you’re an adrenaline junkie. Abducting and hunting down werewolves sounds like a pretty extreme sport to me. So what do you say? Why don’t you open up that door and give it a try?”

“I like him,” says the bearded brother with a chuckle. “He’s feisty.”

The shaven brother scowls and takes a remote from his pocket , pressing a button that slides open the lock on Stiles’ cell door. It takes all of his self-restraint to hold still while the man opens it. The man shoves the bucket into Stiles’ lap, then closes the door again. The bearded brother slips two water bottles and one of the sandwiches through the bars into Stiles’ cage while his brother puts the other bucket in Derek’s cell. The bearded brother then gives Derek the remaining two water bottles and the last sandwich.

“He may be feisty now, but he won’t be for long. They always break in the end,” says the clean-shaven brother.

“I don’t know.” The bearded brother watches Stiles face as the teen keeps his expression schooled into a smirk that reveals nothing. “I get the feeling this one will fight ‘til the end. It will be one hell of a hunt.” Without another word, the men leave empty-handed. As soon as the door to the barn shuts behind them, Stiles turns to Derek with a glare.

“Way to have my back there, Robin.”

Derek shakes his head. “If I’d expressed concern, it only would have made them more interested in you. They’re sadists. Killing a lone werewolf from a pack is one thing; imagine the thrill of killing close pack-mates in front of each other.”

“That’s really fucked up.”

“Kate Argent.”

“Point taken. Fucking hunters.” Stiles picks up one of the water bottles in his cage and twists the cap open to take a drink, then he unwraps his sandwich and takes a large bite. “When I’m done eating, I’m going to look around for a way out.”

Derek starts on his own sandwich. “I don’t think we should make any escape attempts just yet,” he says between bites. “Roy said that they kept him here for around a week before we were brought in.”

“Maybe they were waiting for some time to pass,” Stiles says, “or maybe they were just waiting until they knew they had something to hunt after they were finished with him. Either way, it won’t hurt to have an idea. Supposing they do decide to keep us around a while, it will give us time to make contingency plans.”

“I’ve already got one plan in mind,” Derek says, wrapping up the remaining half of his sandwich. “We need to make sure they hunt me first. When they let me out, I’ll sneak up on them and I can either steal the remote so you can open the door yourself or I can get a gun from them and shoot the lock off.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Do you even know how to shoot a gun?”

Derek shrugs. “Can’t be that hard.”

Stiles scoffs and sets aside his sandwich, taking a swig from his water bottle. After he sets it down, he points a slender finger at Derek. “You are not shooting a gun anywhere near me. You’re bad luck, I’m bad luck; with our combined misfortune, you’ll probably just end up shooting me or else the bullet will ricochet and then hit me. Or possibly hit you. Then you’ll die of wolfsbane poisoning.”

“Fine,” Derek says with a scowl. “I’ll just get the remote.”

“But again, this is a last resort. Ideally, I’d like to get out of here before we become victims of violent murder.”

“I guess we’d better start looking for a way out then.”

“I guess so.” Stiles moves to the front of the cage, clutching the bars in his hands. “Okay, what do you see on top of my cage?”

Over the next few hours, they search for any objects within Stiles’ reach. Derek describes the top of Stiles’ cage from his vantage point while the teen reaches through the bars to slide his hand along the surface of the metal, feeling for anything he can find. They discover right away that there’s no way to manually unlock the cages. Stiles fights with the latch for about ten minutes until Derek finally tells him to stop before he bloodies his fingers and gives away his humanity. The cage turns out to be just tall enough for Stiles to stand up in with only a few inches of space between the top of his head and his imposed ceiling. That means Derek can stand too, but Stiles can see it makes him uncomfortable to have so little room to maneuver. They take a break at one point to urinate and, upon discussion, agree that the purpose of the buckets in their cages is to contain their excrement. They open the lids and turn their backs to each other as they relieve themselves, then seal the buckets once more to trap the stench. At the end of their search, all they have to speak for is a long, steel nail. Stiles slips it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt for safekeeping.

“They’ll probably keep slipping the food and water in through the bars,” Stiles says, “but they’ll have to empty the shit buckets sometime, right? I could jump them with the nail; take them by surprise.”

“Or they might just shoot you,” Derek says.

“What if I do tell them I’m human? Maybe we can work that to our advantage.”

“What, like you think they’ll just let you go? Say it was all a misunderstanding?”

“Not at all. But they might be less likely to shoot me. They want to hunt us, right? Well they can’t hunt me if I’m already dead.”

“You’d also give away the element of surprise. Combine both ideas: when they reach in to give you food and water, grab the guy’s arm and use the nail as a weapon. Either we can use him as a negotiating tool or you can bring him down and search his pockets for the remote.”

“Ruthless; I like it.” Stiles huffs a laugh. “Man, a year ago I’d be freaking out about this. I guess you see enough massacres and hold your teacher’s guts in, and stabbing a guy with a nail seems like small fries.”

Derek presses his lips together in an unhappy line. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he says.

Stiles frowns. “Dude, what are you sorry for? None of this shit was your fault.”

“A lot of it was,” Derek says. “I feel like…” He stops and clasps his hands in front of his mouth, like he’s trying to keep the words in.

Stiles wraps his fingers around one of the bars of his cage and leans out toward Derek. “You feel like what?”

Derek works his jaw for a moment before speaking. “Like I’m cursed. Like everywhere I go, death follows.”

“Did people die in New York?”

Derek licks his lips. “No. That’s why I didn’t want to say it; it sounds stupid, like I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“It’s not,” Stiles argues. “It’s not stupid, but it’s not you either. It’s this town. Remember those telluric currents Danny mapped out months ago? It’s like _Buffy_ ; we literally live on a Hellmouth. You bit Jackson, I’ll give you that, but you had no way of knowing he’d turn into a kanima.”

“It’s easier to blame a person than it is to blame geography,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “Yeah. Why do you think ancient civilizations made sacrifices to keep volcanos from erupting?”

“In their defense, no one theorized about fault lines and plate tectonics until the late eighteen hundreds,” says Derek.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Geology?”

“History major. Laura wanted more for me than a high school diploma. She wanted us to move forward after our family’s deaths.”

Stiles stares at Derek in wonder and realizes this may be his only chance to ask. “What was she like?”

Derek smiles, sad and fond, and tells Stiles, “She was amazing.”

Stiles wants to press the subject, say, ‘ _that’s it?’_ and demand Derek to tell him more, but he knows firsthand what it’s like to lose family. Laura has only been dead for just over a year and Stiles still avoids talking about his mother eight years after the fact. “For the record,” he says instead, “I’m sorry that Scott and I accused you of murdering her a year ago; especially the second time. I don’t think I ever apologized for that.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Derek says, “Scott still hasn’t apologized either.”

Stiles huffs. “Figures. The first time we accused you, I actually thought you were guilty. Didn’t help that you never denied it.”

“Like you would have believed me,” Derek scoffs.

“I would have thought about it! Anyway, and the second time, I was against the idea. Scott thought you were dead and we obviously couldn’t say it was a werewolf—”

“Just drop it.”

“How can I just drop it? You were an innocent—”

“ _Stiles, just drop it_. I dropped it long ago.”

Stiles blinks, staring at Derek where he glares from his cage. “Oh.”

Derek looks away, annoyed and sullen, but not angry. It seems par for the course as far as the two of them are concerned, and Stiles finds it strangely comforting. It makes him wonder just how long he and Derek have really been friends. Since last summer? Since he held Derek up in the swimming pool as the kanima circled them? Or even when Derek took refuge in his room when he was a fugitive?

Stiles doesn’t know how long they go without talking—it could be minutes or hours for all he knows—before the boredom sets in. He starts out tapping his fingers along the floor beneath him, then twisting the fingers of both hands together. A minute goes by and he begins to run a hand back and forth along the bars horizontally.

“Will you quit that?” Derek asks with irritation.

Stiles clamps his hands on his knees. “Is this really what your life is like: all this waiting around while being held captive? God, your uncle is starting to make so much sense now.”

“Usually there’s a lot more torture involved,” says Derek dryly.

“Okay yeah, but I’m sure those bouts of torment are interspersed with cool-down periods, right? What the hell do you do in all that time? How are you still sane?”

“I don’t have ADHD, for starters.”

“Well I can’t exactly picture you meditating in your free time. You don’t really give off any zen vibes.”

“I don’t meditate.”

“Maybe you should. It would really help with the anger issues, though I’ll admit you have been a lot better lately.”

“I’m not as angry anymore.”

“See? Progress! Did you go to therapy in South America or something?”

“It used to be my anchor,” Derek says, “anger.”

Stiles presses his face as far between the bars as he can. “What changed?”

“It stopped being the only thing I had. I don’t feel so alone anymore.”

Stiles’ eyes drop to the dusty floor in front of him and he smiles, small and quiet. “You haven’t been alone for a while now.”

“I know.”

Stiles looks up at Derek again, but the werewolf’s head is still turned toward the lone window. “We’re going to get out of here, okay, Derek? I promise.”

Derek’s eyes meet his, then wander over his features. “Okay,” he says. They ration their water and sandwiches to last throughout the day and turn their backs on each other to give a semblance of privacy whenever one of them has to use the waste buckets. When the light coming through the lone window fades to darkness, Derek asks, “How are you feeling?”

Stiles says, “No dizziness or nausea. My head hurts, but that’s from a mix of exhaustion and the fact that I’m pretty sure it got grazed with a bullet yesterday.”

“What about taste and smell? Do you remember when I said the idea of plate tectonics developed? How’s your concentration?”

“The sandwich tasted like a sandwich and I never realized how truly awful the smell of piss is until it was concentrated. Late eighteen hundreds and I haven’t taken any Adderall in the last thirty-six hours; how the hell do you think my concentration is?” Stiles replies. Derek frowns and Stiles says, “Wait a minute. Have you been talking to Melissa?” Derek shifts awkwardly where he’s seated in his cage. “You totally have, haven’t you?”

“With so many pack members who can’t heal within minutes, it seemed pertinent to know how to provide first aid,” Derek tells him.

Stiles grins. “Huh. You know, it’s funny: you’re a better alpha now than you were when you actually _were_ an alpha.”

Derek scowls. “ _Thanks._ ”

“No, that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“Funny how you manage to make a compliment sound exactly like an insult.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles. I’ll wake you up to take over watch.”

Sighing, Stiles settles himself down on the floor of his cage, curling up close to the door. He pillows his head on his arm and despite the cold, he falls asleep within minutes.

 

“Stiles… _Stiles, wake up._ ”

Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes shut, but he slowly lifts his aching head from his deadened arm. Immediately, the appendage begins tingling as blood flow returns to his extremities. He sits up slowly, using his good arm to prop himself and trying to keep the other arm as still as possible. He squints and can just barely make out the shape of Derek sitting in his cage. He can hear birds starting to chirp.

“It’s almost morning,” he says groggily. His voice is thick with the vestiges of sleep. “You’re not going to get to sleep for very long.”

“You need it more than I do,” says Derek.

“Don’t martyr yourself for me.” Stiles glowers.

“You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s what you think.”

Instead of calling Stiles out on his bluff, Derek just settles down in his cage, curling up in a similar position to the one Stiles slept in.

“Sleep good, handsome man,” says Stiles. “Dream sweet dreams of chasing rabbits.”

“Shut up. And stop quoting _Transformers_ at me.”

Stiles brings his newly reanimated hand to his chest. “A man after my own heart.”

Derek grunts articulately. Stiles doesn’t know how long it takes for Derek to fall asleep, but it doesn’t take long for him to become bored. He decides there’s something cruelly ironic about the fact that some of the only nightmare-free sleep he’s had since he became a surrogate sacrifice for the Nemeton is taking place in a cage while he’s being held captive by psychotic hunters. Stiles shivers, the cold of the February morning cutting through the flannel of his shirt. He mourns the loss of his jacket, abandoned in the passenger seat of Derek’s Toyota in the plaza parking lot outside the video store. If the bars weren’t lined with mountain ash, Stiles might have managed to convince Derek to lend him his leather jacket; werewolves run hot and Stiles thinks they’re friendly enough that Derek wouldn’t mind too much.

With a sigh, Stiles leans back against the bars and takes the steel nail from his pocket, twisting it over in his hands. The metal is lukewarm, having absorbed some of Stiles’ body heat in its proximity. There are a few patches along the grey length where rust is beginning to appear; it could probably be washed off easily enough if someone tried. Stiles taps the pointed end of it with a fingertip, trying to gauge its usefulness as a weapon. It isn’t sharp enough to cut easily, so he can’t threaten anyone with it like he would with a knife. It wouldn’t take much force to break through the skin if Stiles tried to stab someone with it though.

He takes a moment then to marvel at the state of his life. He wonders what he might be doing now if he’d never gone searching for Laura’s body that night and Scott had never been bitten. Allison would still be alive; maybe she’d never even find out that werewolves exist. She and Scott would be attached at the hip while Stiles vocally laments his lack of a relationship status. They’d probably be studying for SATs with Lydia and Jackson, who never would have gone to London. Erica and Boyd would still be alive, likely never would have been bitten.

But then Stiles thinks: the reason they wouldn’t have been bitten is because Derek would be dead. All alone, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Peter. That is, if Kate Argent didn’t get to him first. Derek would have died alone, scared, and angry. Matt Daehler never would have had the means to begin his massacre and Isaac Lahey would still be stuck with his abusive father. Maybe the alpha pack wouldn’t have come without Scott and Derek, or maybe they would have come for Peter and it would have been open season for the Darach while the police ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. The Nemeton would have been awoken by Julia and the nogitsune could have possessed anyone, probably Meredith in Eichen House with her connection to the supernatural.

Stiles wonders what would have been better. Which way would have saved more lives? Perhaps Noshiko Yukimura would have killed Meredith with the oni before the nogitsune could slaughter more people. How many people could have been saved by killing the nogitsune’s host instead of trying to save them? Stiles counts the hypothetical death toll in his head. Everyone involved in the Hale fire still would have been killed by Peter. Victoria Argent would still be alive. Derek would be dead. Matt’s victims would be alive. If the alpha pack didn’t come, the Darach wouldn’t start stringing up sacrifices and if they did, at least fifteen people would die: three virgins, three warriors, three healers, three philosophers, and three guardians. The nogitsune would probably only manage a few murders before Noshiko got to it.

The thought makes Stiles’ heart ache. People would still die, but so many could have been saved. All it would have cost is Derek’s life. Peter probably would have created his own pack, and who knows what he would have done with it after those responsible for the Hale fire had been dispatched. And yet…

Stiles is glad that Derek is alive, no matter how many lives could have been spared by his death.

The sun is shining bright through the grimy window before Stiles wakes Derek by calling, “Cock-a-doodle-doo! Rise and shine, buddy!” Derek groans, curling in on himself. “Jesus Christ, I thought zombies weren’t real; except for Peter, of course. Up and at ‘em, tiger! I mean unless you _want_ Thing One and Thing Two to walk in while you’re all asleep and vulnerable.”

“Stiles, _shut up._ ”

“There’s the grumpy wolf we all know and love.”

“Did you have to wake me up in the most obnoxious way possible?” Derek sits up, grumbling.

“It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.”

Derek doesn’t remind Stiles that he hasn’t been this playful in months and Stiles is thankful for it. Derek squints at the sunlight pouring through the window.

“You let me sleep in,” he says.

“I’m aware, thanks.”

Derek frowns at him. “Why?”

“Even werewolves need their beauty sleep.” Stiles winks.

“I’m just amazed you were able to shut up for that long. Scott will never believe me.”

“I bet you think you’re funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Derek deadpans.

Stiles laughs.

The same two men who came yesterday come again to bring food and water bottles. Stiles trades a few barbed comments with them, but overall the affair is uneventful. When the men are gone, Stiles finishes off yesterday’s water and eats a small breakfast with Derek before regaling him with tales of his adventures with Scott. He tells Derek how they met: in the sandbox when they were in kindergarten. Stiles peed on the sandcastle Scott had built. Derek tells Stiles a little about his time away from Beacon Hills with Cora. He says Cora stayed with a pack in South America after the fire, and that’s where she is now. The pack offered Derek a place to stay with them, but he couldn’t. He felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

He doesn’t know Cora very well, Derek admits. He doesn’t think either of them really recognize each other after the fire and all the time that’s passed. He keeps in touch with her by phone, and that seems to be working out okay for them. Derek confesses that he had no idea what to do with himself after he left Cora in South America, so he employed Peter’s help to find the box of Talia Hale’s claws he had hidden away seven years ago. They used the claws so Derek could talk with his mother.

“What was it like?” Stiles asks quietly. “Seeing her again.”

“Surreal,” Derek says. “I almost started crying.”

Talia told Derek about Peter’s child and said that he was needed in Beacon Hills.

“I’m glad you came back,” Stiles says. “It’s selfish, I know. Beacon Hills is full of terrible memories for you, and now me—yay me. But I missed you.”

Derek just looks at Stiles for a minute before he asks, “Would you want to leave Beacon Hills?”

Stiles sighs. “I have too many tethers here. Dad, Scott, Melissa, and Lydia. They’d all be helpless without me.”

“What if there was nothing tying you here? Where would you want to go?”

Stiles smiles to himself and leans back against the bars of his cage. “Iceland. There is a literal penis museum there.”

Derek huffs a laugh. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I want to see this penis museum. I wonder if they have any werewolves.” Stiles winks at Derek before growing more thoughtful. “But I think I’d like to go to the city. Like San Francisco or something. Somewhere I can get lost and be just another face in the crowd.”

Derek nods in understanding. “That’s why Laura and I went to New York, after the fire. We had to check in with the local pack, but after that we were free. No one else knew who we were. We could appear and disappear at will, just fade into the background like movie extras.”

“Like the projections in _Inception_ ,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, like that.”

Stiles grins. “You’ve seen _Inception?_ ”

Derek scowls. “What, did you think I lived under a rock?”

“No!” Stiles protests. “It’s just hard to picture you living like a normal person.”

“You’ve been grocery shopping with me and we’ve had Marvel movie marathons.”

“Yeah, but I was there to see it.”

“Your father gave me money to re-shingle the roof of your house.”

“Because of your werewolf strength and balance!”

Derek rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Can’t you just accept that you’re like Bigfoot, Derek?” Stiles asks.

“ _No._ Bigfoot isn’t even real.”

“ _You’re_ not real. Maybe _I’m_ not even real.”

“You’re too annoying to not be real.”

“Derek, has anyone ever told you you’re a charmer?”

“No.”

“Good, because they’d be lying.”

“Given my romantic history, that’s probably for the better.”

Stiles snickers. “Goddammit, we’re in mortal peril!”

“It must be a day that ends with ‘y’.”

Who would have thought that in the face of monotony and death, Derek would be a comedian?

Late in the afternoon, a thunderstorm rolls in. Bright flashes of lightning flicker through the window, followed by loud rumbles of thunder. Rain patters on the barn roof and Stiles remembers his grade four teacher closing the door and turning out the lights in the classroom. She told them to close their eyes and snap their fingers as she described a light rain. Snapping their fingers turned to patting their thighs, then stomping their feet as the rain came down harder. A few students brought their fists down on their desks to replicate the sound of thunder. After a minute, the class began patting their thighs again, and then snapping their fingers as the rain died down. Then, one by one, they all fell silent.

Stiles’ eyes are closed now. He sits with his knees drawn up, leaning back against the bars of his cage with his head tilted against them. He feels so tired.

“Stiles?” says Derek.

“Mm?”

“You’ve been quiet for a while.”

“Withdrawal,” Stiles replies. “I haven’t had any Adderall in a couple days. I’m just really drowsy. Just wait: when I’m not too tired to function, I’m going to drive you insane. You thought I was twitchy before? Man, are you in for a nasty treat.” Derek doesn’t say anything to that. Stiles listens to the storm. After a while, he says, “When I was a kid, my mom told me that thunder was the sound of angels bowling. Sometime in fourth grade, I realized on my own that it was just a sonic boom after the lightning breaks the sound barrier. I was so proud of myself. What did your parents tell you about thunder?”

“Bowling gods,” Derek says. At Stiles’ look, he raises an eyebrow. “What? Were you expecting something wolf-related? My mother was a polytheist.”

Stiles frowns. “She was a pagan?”

“By its loosest definition, yes.”

“Huh.” Stiles mulls the thought over. “What about you? What do you believe in?”

“I think that many gods are more believable than one god. The threefold death is meant to be a tribute to three gods simultaneously, and Jennifer certainly did grow more powerful with her sacrifices.”

“Okay, but what if the Darach thing had never happened?”

“I think…” Derek pauses. “I think if there was one god, it would be more compassionate. It would care more for its creations. Many gods would each have their own jurisdiction. They wouldn’t care as much about the bigger picture, you know?”

“You think that a single God would interfere with humanity more? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the whole purpose of free will?”

“You and I aren’t exactly poster children for free will.”

Stiles bites his lip, hard. “Right.”

Derek sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It was cruel.” A beat. “What do you believe in?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles confesses. “But I think I’d like to believe in Heaven.”

Derek’s eyes meet his and he says, “Me too.”

Stiles sleeps a lot after that, the lack of medication finally catching up with him. Derek keeps watch over him diligently, but in the early morning, the storm long gone, he finally crashes for a few hours while Stiles takes over. When Stiles isn’t yawning and lazing against the bars lethargically, he’s fidgety and irritated. He takes the nail from the breast pocket of his shirt and scratches drawings into the floor of the cage. Stiles replaces the nail in his pocket and wakes Derek a few minutes before the two men bring their daily food and water. The bearded man frowns as he slips the food and water through the bars of Stiles’ cage.

“What are those?” he asks, pointing at the scratches.

“Drawings,” Stiles says with a shrug. “I got bored and I have claws. You know, werewolf claws. This isn’t exactly a very stimulating environment you’ve got here.”

The man smirks. “Oh don’t worry, things will be _stimulating_ soon enough.”

“Funny: something tells me that when you say ‘ _stimulating_ ’, it isn’t nearly as fun or sexual as what I’m picturing.”

The man chuckles and Stiles feels vaguely uncomfortable about it. “You’re probably right.”

As soon as the hunters leave, Derek sings under his breath, “ _I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo._ ”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “How did I know you’d be a Radiohead fan?”

Derek shrugs, looking quietly pleased with himself. “’S a good band.” This, of course, incites an entire discussion about music. Stiles isn’t surprised by Derek’s taste for classic rock, but the indie is less expected. “Cora likes it,” he says with a shrug. “And it’s soothing.” When Stiles asks Derek about Bob Dylan, he levels Stiles with a flat look and says, “I don’t trust anyone who outright dislikes Bob Dylan.” They talk about Mumford & Sons a little, but Derek makes a face when Stiles tries to bring up All Time Low.

Stiles takes multiple naps throughout the day, segmented by conversations with Derek. They fall silent at some point in the afternoon when the barn door unexpectedly opens again. The bearded man and another they’ve never seen before enter with a figure in their arms. The clean shaven man walks behind them with the remote in his hand. When they’re in front of the cages, the shaven man opens the cage next to Derek’s and the other two men place her inside before locking the door once more. They joke among themselves about fresh meat as they leave.

Derek presses as close to the bars of his cage as the mountain ash will allow as he examines the newcomer’s features.

“She’s a woman,” Derek says, “and a beta.”

Stiles catches a glimpse of a dark-skinned hand disappearing into a long sleeve. Her face is hidden by a curtain of long, black hair.

“This changes things,” Stiles says. “We have to get out tomorrow.”

“I agree,” Derek says. “For all we know, they might even plan to hunt one of us tonight.”

“Do you think we should tell her about…?” Stiles gestures vaguely at himself.

“Yes,” Derek says immediately. “Not telling people things is what landed us in a lot of messes over the last year. And if we’re going to be saving each other’s lives, we’re going to want to build that relationship on a foundation of trust.”

The corner of Stiles’ mouth quirks upward and he huffs a small laugh. “You’ve come a long way, Derek. I guess you really can teach an old dog new tricks.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but his expression is soft and relaxed. “Yeah, well, you don’t fuck up as much as I do and not learn a thing or two.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Other people’s mistakes don’t typically have death tolls.”

“Mine have.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You think it was a mistake to save a girl who’s functionally nine years old?”

“Well, no…” Stiles frowns with frustration. “But I could have found another way.”

“There was no other way,” Derek tells him. “Not with the time you had.”

Derek, Scott, and Morrell are the only people Stiles has talked to about his time at Eichen House; the visions of his mother, working with Malia to get into the basement and utilizing her sense of smell to find the hollow wall. How a possessed Oliver caught them by surprise because Stiles was distracted and Malia didn’t know better. As a professional, Morrell didn’t provide an opinion on the choices Stiles made, but Scott and Derek both assured Stiles that there was nothing else he could have done, that even if he’d said no then, the nogitsune just would have searched for an alternative.

Trying to keep his mind away from the bloodshed, Stiles asks, “Do you think we should tell her about our plan?”

“Maybe not the details,” Derek says. “But enough so that she knows what to do and isn’t shocked when we set it in motion.”

“Sounds good to me.” Stiles takes a sip of water and settles down on the floor of his cage, drowsiness pressing in on the corners of his mind. “I’m going to nap, okay?”

If Derek replies, Stiles doesn’t hear it.

 

Stiles wakes to the soft cadence of voices. He recognizes one as Derek’s. The other is female and accented with sharper consonants and stronger “r” sounds. The female voice stops abruptly and Stiles mumbles incoherently as he forces himself to sit up, blinking blearily. The woman in the cage across from him is sitting up straight and alert. She looks to be in her early forties. Her eyes are dark and expressive.

Derek says, “Stiles, this is Leela.”

Stiles gives her a small, tight-lipped smile. Voice rough with sleep, he says, “Hey. Where are you from?”

“My pack is in Redding,” Leela says. She watches him distrustfully.

“What have I missed?” Stiles asks, turning to Derek.

“You’ve been asleep for a few hours,” Derek tells him. “The tranquilizer wore off of Leela about ten minutes ago.”

“How much have you told her?”

“Our names and where we’re from.”

Stiles looks at Leela then. “Sorry about the narcolepsy. I swear I’m not usually like this. I’m kind of going through Adderall withdrawal right now.”

“Adderall?” Leela’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “I have never heard of a werewolf taking Adderall.”

Stiles sticks a hand through the bars and waves it. “Surprise! Token human here. I’m like the pack mascot.”

Leela blinks with shock. “I thought the hunters were only taking werewolves.”

“That’s what they think too.” Stiles winks. “Every morning, they bring us food and water, slipping it through the bars. Tomorrow, I’m going to take them by surprise and win us a ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

“The details aren’t important,” Derek says, “but you’re going to need to be ready to act. As soon as Stiles gets the doors open, we need to run. Don’t stick around and try to fight; just get out as fast as you can.”

“What about him?” Leela points at Stiles. “He can’t run as fast as we can.”

“I’ll worry about that,” Derek says. “You worry about you.”

Leela bites her lip, looking at Stiles, but she nods. “I have a wife and children. A boy and a girl around your age.”

“We’ll get you home to them,” Stiles says, gripping the bars tight. “I promise.”

Leela’s eyes soften. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, boy.”

“I don’t. And I’m promising you that we will get you out of here.”

Leela smiles, small and a little skeptical, but Stiles gets it. He’s just a child to her. He thinks she’s probably a great mother.

“Just wait until you see me in action,” Stiles says. “See if I’m a kid then.” He settles back in his cage again, curling up to retain his body heat. “I’m sleeping again,” he tells Derek.

“Sleep as much as you need to,” says Derek. “We’ll need our strength tomorrow.”

“Now there’s a comforting thought.” Stiles falls asleep effortlessly.

 

The next time Stiles wakes, Derek is asleep and Leela is keeping watch over them, eyes glowing yellow in the semi-darkness.

“Hey,” he whispers. “How long was I out?”

“The sun is rising,” Leela says. “I let your alpha sleep for most of the night.”

“He’s not actually an alpha,” Stiles says, “but thanks. He keeps giving me extended hours, so he’s barely had any himself. Self-sacrificing bastard.”

“That’s what an alpha does.”

“Better late than never, I guess.” At Leela’s confused look, Stiles says, “Never mind. Tell me about your family.”

Leela doesn’t share too many details, but she tells Stiles about her children. Her son is fourteen and her daughter is eleven. Her wife is American whereas she was born in India. English is Leela’s second language, but she was still young when her family immigrated here, so she learned quickly. She met her wife in her last year of college and they became partners soon after. Her wife was born a werewolf, and she revealed the secret to Leela after they’d been dating for several months. Leela was in an accident a year later and her wife’s alpha gave her the bite to save her life.

“How did you come to be here?” Leela asks.

“Derek’s uncle bit my best friend a year ago,” Stiles tells her. “It wasn’t Scott’s choice. I kind of figured it out when Scott’s superpowers kicked in, and then a lot of stuff happened. Scott ended up becoming an alpha and Derek and I became friends. We were renting a movie when we got nabbed.”

Leela turns her head to look at Derek. “He cares about you a lot.”

Stiles swallows, feels his face heat up a little. “I care about him too.”

When the first rays of sunlight begin to shine through the window, Stiles calls Derek’s name softly to wake him. His eyes trace the long lines of Derek’s body as the sleepy werewolf stretches.

“It’s almost time,” Stiles says.

“Are you ready?” Derek asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Stiles takes the nail from his breast pocket and curls his hand around it. They wait mostly in silence for the hunters to arrive. Stiles pats the beat to Baba O’Riley on his thighs until Derek tells him to shut up, then he plays with the nail, foot tapping.

“Will you just _stop moving?_ ” Derek snaps.

“I warned you this would happen!” Stiles protests. “I can’t help it!”

Derek grunts with annoyance and Leela watches them quietly. From the sounds of it, she’s had a far more peaceful pack life than the ‘wolves of Beacon Hills have. She probably isn’t as accustomed to high-stress situations. Stiles hopes she never has to be.

Derek and Leela both go still at once, facing the barn door like a pair of Irish setters.

“What is it, Lassie?” Stiles whispers.

“Shut up,” Derek and Leela say simultaneously.

The barn doors open and the two usual men walk in, carrying food and water bottles for all three of them. Stiles squeezes the nail in his hand, feeling the ridges dig into his palm. The clean shaven man bends down at Leela’s cage while the bearded man comes toward Stiles’. As soon as the man bends down and begins tossing the bottles through the bars, Stiles lunges. He grabs the man’s wrist with his free hand and drives the nail into the side of the man’s knee with the other. The man yelps and his leg buckles beneath him.

“You little _fucker!_ ” he spits.

Stiles tries to haul the man in closer so that he can point the nail to his throat, but he grabs Stiles’ wrist and pulls it to the side. Stiles cries out with pain and alarm as the bars form a perfect fulcrum against his forearm, threatening to break it with just the slightest pressure. Stiles’ hand opens reflexively, dropping the bloodied nail. Stiles pants, chest pressed against the bars, and the bearded man leans in close with a predatory smile.

“We knew it was only a matter of time,” he says.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “You _knew?_ ”

The man laughs and releases Stiles’ wrist. Stiles lets go of the man’s arm and scrambles backward in his cage, getting to his feet in a crouched position. The clean shaven man finishes distributing the food and water to Leela and Derek and the bearded man says, “Open ‘er up.”

The shaven man takes the remote from his pocket and Stiles’ door springs open. Stiles immediately bolts, crashing into the bearded man shoulder-first. The man makes a choked sound, but his large arms wrap around Stiles’ waist before he can get very far.

Derek shouts, “Stiles!”

Stiles swings back with his elbows and feels one connect with a sick crunch, wet warmth soaking into the sleeve of his shirt as the bearded man splutters. The shaven man rushes over and grabs one of Stiles’ arms in an iron grip while the bearded man releases his waist and takes the other arm. Stiles jerks against their hold and kicks out with his legs, feet contacting with soft tissue and eliciting grunts of pain. Derek is snarling and calling Stiles’ name from his cage, eyes blue with unconcealed fury. The men begin to kick back at Stiles’ legs and the bearded man frees up one of his hands to punch Stiles hard in the solar plexus, stealing the air from his lungs. Stiles gasps for breath as the man grins at him through bloody teeth, his broken nose already swelling grotesquely. He punches Stiles in the gut once, twice, and then aims another at his groin. Stiles’ legs go limp beneath him as pain shoots through his body. The men drag Stiles toward the barn door.

“Let him go!” Derek yells. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking _kill you!_ ”

And then the barn door falls shut behind them.

 

They bring Stiles to a farmhouse a couple hundred meters away. The house is old, but it’s been kept in decent shape. The shingles look new and the paint on the porch is weathered, but not chipped or peeling. The house is surrounded on all sides by woods and the gravel drive twists out of sight. Two pick-up trucks and a dark grey van are parked by the house.

“Nice digs, you’ve got,” Stiles says. “I don’t suppose either of you play the banjo?”

The men ignore Stiles, hauling him up the porch steps and kicking at the door. A woman in her thirties with dark brown hair and grey eyes opens the door a moment later and looks at Stiles blandly before standing aside to let them through. Stiles doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting when he enters the house, but it’s not what he finds. He thought maybe the house would be Spartan and there would be guns and weapons layering every surface. Jars of wolfsbane and mountain ash on the shelves. Maybe a few preserved hands with claws. Instead it just looks like a regular house; homey even. There are framed pictures and paintings on the walls, flowers on the end tables, and a flat-screen television in the living room. A shelf holds books and DVDs. The only thing out of place is a chair with wooden arms placed in the middle of the living room and a pile of ropes on the coffee table.

The men shove Stiles into the chair unceremoniously and lash his wrists to the armrests. They tie the knots expertly: tight enough that Stiles’ arms are immobilized, but not enough to cut off his circulation entirely. Stiles glares down at the floral rug as the men leave the room. The woman sighs like Stiles’ presence is a great burden on her and she clears a mug off of the coffee table, leaving Stiles alone.

Stiles fights against the bonds and fidgets with boredom for what feels like hours but is probably closer to five minutes before he hears approaching footsteps. He looks up and his mouth drops open as a red-haired man enters the room, a relaxed smile playing across his lips.

“ _Roy?_ ”

“Hello, Stiles,” Roy says mildly.

“I—you were _dead!_ ” Stiles exclaims. “I _listened to you die!_ ”

“I took a couple theatre courses in college.” Roy leans against the open frame of the living room. “I was told I was quite the natural.”

“All those things you said,” Stiles protests. “Derek could hear your heartbeat!”

“There are ways to lie without blatantly contradicting the truth,” says Roy. “As I’m sure you’ve learned by now. Take technicalities and twist them to suit your own purposes.”

“But why are you doing this? You’re a _werewolf!_ ”

Roy leaps forward and snarls, face inches from Stiles’ own. His eyes gleam vibrant red. “Not by choice. I was a hunter. I am _still_ a hunter. I thought it was all over when Ramirez bit me.” Roy stands up straight and his expression falls into a neutral smirk once more. “But then I met Deucalion. Deucalion told me that I could become powerful. All I had to do was kill Ramirez and then every member of his pack, one by one. After I became the alpha, the betas fell easily. And with every werewolf I killed, the stronger I became. Deucalion expected me to join his alpha pack, but he was sorely mistaken.

“I _hated_ myself for what I was. I had become the very thing that I hunted. Ramirez bit me because he knew that I would be duty-bound to destroy myself. He never expected that I would take this curse and weaponize it.”

“So this is what you do,” Stiles says. “You kidnap innocent werewolves and slaughter them so that you can kill even more werewolves.”

“There is _nothing_ innocent about them!” Roy bellows, his face becoming thunderous. “And if you believe so, you have been led astray.” He gives Stiles a pitying look. “When I saw you with that beta, I thought perhaps you could be saved. You’ve been corrupted, but there is always hope for re-education.”

“Listen, buddy, the only one who’s been led astray here is you. These are _people!_ Sure they get kind of hairy and growly once a month, but they have friends and family just like you and me.”

“You have so much faith in your friend in the cage?”

“Derek is my friend,” Stiles says firmly. “He’d die for me, just like I’d die for him.”

Roy looks genuinely disappointed. “Perhaps it is too late for you after all.” Without another word, Roy leaves the room.

“Roy? Roy!” Stiles shouts after him. “Come back here, you son of a bitch, and let me go!”

The brown haired woman comes back, sighing, with a roll of duct tape in her hand. She rips a strip off of it and fits it over Stiles’ mouth, silencing his cries. He glares at her and she looks back at him impassively.

“You’re giving me a fucking headache,” she says. “God, couldn’t he have picked one that wasn’t so chatty and self-righteous?” She walks away and Stiles stomps his feet, screaming against the tape, but it falls on deaf ears and Stiles is left alone once more.

 

People pass in and out of the living room, every so often conversing. From what Stiles catches, he learns that the woman, Judy, is Roy’s wife and the two men that delivered food to him and Derek every day are her brothers. The bearded man is named Elvis and his brother is Norman. When it starts growing dark outside, the lights inside the house are turned on. Stiles listens to the family eat dinner, chatting conversationally as if they’re not about to murder a pair of werewolves and a teenage boy. His stomach aches with hunger and his tongue feels dry in his mouth. When the clatter of dishes ceases, washed and put away, he hears the men’s feet tromp away. The house falls silent, and then Judy quietly enters the living room on her own with a kitchen chair and a bottle of water.

She places the chair in front of Stiles and sits in it so that they’re eye to eye. Her gaze is cold and calculative, frightening in a way Lydia’s most hateful glares aren’t. It’s the lack of feeling. Even when Lydia despises you, there’s feeling in her eyes. You get the feeling she could kill you and celebrate your death with wine and a lay. Judy looks like she could kill you and feel nothing at all.

Judy studies Stiles for a long moment, like a cell under a microscope, and then all at once she grabs the edge of the tape and rips it off of his skin, tugging painfully at the faint stubble growing on his face. Stiles gasps, eyes clenching shut, and then Judy is grabbing his jaw and pressing the water bottle to his lips. Stiles drinks the water greedily, consumes a third of it before Judy pulls back and leaves him panting for breath.

“Here’s how it is,” Judy says. “My husband thinks there still may be hope for you. I doubt it, but I’ll give it a try. Now normally how this works is we get a werewolf and let it run, get fired up. My brothers and I will weaken it before my husband comes in for the kill. We avoid firearms because we don’t want to poison my husband. If the werewolf manages to escape, we let it go. We don’t pursue it. But of course, none have ever survived.

“But then my husband saw you: a human playing Little Red to the big bad wolves. So they brought you with the wolf and my husband played the victim to gain your trust and motivate you to escape. That way it wouldn’t seem strange when we brought you in for a little chat.”

“So you’ve been planning this all along,” Stiles says.

Judy ignores him. “I’m supposed to persuade you onto our side with words, but I can tell already from the look in your eyes that it’s not going to work. But of course, actions speak louder than words. So that’s why the hunt is going to go a little differently tonight. We’re going to hunt your little friend and we’re bringing you with us. You’ll be tied up, of course, but you won’t need to be for long. When your friend turns on you, you’ll be volunteering to help end his pitiful life.”

“Derek will never turn on me.”

Judy punches Stiles in the jaw hard enough to rock the chair sideways on its feet, tumbling over and crashing to the ground. Stiles’ head slams against the floor and he hisses at the pain. Judy yanks the chair upright and leans in close to Stiles’ face.

“That’s fine then,” she says. “If you don’t want to fight back, we’ll just let your friend tear you apart. Maybe we’ll let him soak in the guilt for a little while before we finish him off.”

“You’re wrong about him,” Stiles says.

Judy shrugs and walks out of the living room. Out in the hall, she calls, “Roy! Elvis! Norman! Tie up the boy; it’s time to go hunting!”

Stiles clenches his hands into fists.

 

Stiles’ wrists are tied together in front of him when the hunters bring him out. Elvis guides him through the forest with one hand on the rope and the other holding a glave. Next to them, Norman carries a long-handled battle axe, and Roy walks in front of them side by side with Judy, who is armed with a falchion.

“You know what these are coated with?” asks Elvis gleefully. “Wolfsbane. Not enough to poison them, but enough to keep the wounds from healing up right away. Instead of seconds, it takes hours.”

Stiles says, “Huh. That’s pretty cool, Elvis. So when’s your next album coming out? ‘Cause I really missed you after Moody Blue.”

Elvis bares his teeth. “I really hope your dog rips you to shreds.”

Stiles sings, “ _You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time!_ ” Elvis punches him in the gut, making the rest of his breath come out in a choked cough. Scowling, Stiles says, “Well you _definitely_ ain’t no friend of mine.”

“Open the wolf’s cage,” says Judy.

Norman takes the remote from his pocket and presses a button. From here, Stiles can’t hear anything from the barn, but before long he hears a low, unmistakeable howl in the distance.

Heart in his throat, Stiles hollers, “Derek, _run!_ It’s a trap!” Elvis lets go of the rope and throws his fist into Stiles’ cheek, sending him sprawling in the dead leaves. Roy leaps into the trees with agile grace and the hunters spread out strategically, hiding among the woods while Stiles is left open and vulnerable, like a sacrificial lamb.

Derek crashes through the woods, making no effort to mask his path. To Stiles’ dismay, the noises of him are getting closer rather than drifting farther away.

“No, you idiot! _Get out of here! Get Scott!_ ” With a sound of frustration, Stiles rolls onto his side and gets an elbow beneath him, then his knee, and he brings himself to his feet. Of course, Derek isn’t listening. Stiles begins to run toward him, the moon lighting his path through the trees. “Derek, we aren’t just dealing with hunters; it’s Roy! He’s an alpha! Fuck the plan and get the hell away from here! They’re going to—”

Stiles’ feet disappear beneath him and he screams as he’s hauled into the air upside down, a rope ensnaring his right leg. The blood rushes to his head and he struggles for breath as his prone body swings in place, dangling a meter from the ground. He hears a chuckle off to the side and as he spins slowly from the rope, he sees the upside-down figure of Elvis approaching, the dark plum of his broken nose standing out against his pale face in the darkness as he grins.

“Well isn’t this a sight?” says Elvis. “You’d swear it’s my birthday. Now let’s see: how can we make your pet werewolf hurry it up a bit?” Elvis turns his glave over so that he grips it just above the blade, then he draws it back like a baseball bat and brings the handle around to smack Stiles hard in the hip, making him cry out. “Perfect!” He beats Stiles again and again, each time finding a different place to strike. Every so often, Elvis sends out short jabs with the end of the handle and Stiles bites his lip against the noises he wants to make. He squirms in the rope, fighting to free himself from the grip around his ankle. The handle of the glave cracks down against Stiles’ knee and he bites through his lip, tasting blood as he gasps. His leg spasms and his shoe slips free, releasing his foot and sending him crashing to the ground, barely managing to get his forearms beneath him.

Stiles lays unmoving where he lands, blood leaving his head and leaking sluggishly from his mouth as he just breathes. In his peripheral vision, Stiles can see Elvis lifting the glave again and he braces himself for the impact. The handle comes down, but it freezes before it can hit Stiles. Bright blue eyes glow in the darkness above him and there’s a savage growl.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles breathes.

Derek jerks the glave from Elvis’s grip and spins it around before he drives the blade into the hunter’s gut. Elvis makes a choked, gurgling sound and the werewolf drops the handle, letting the hunter fall out of Stiles’ sight. Immediately, Derek kneels next to Stiles and cups his bruised face in gentle hands.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says urgently. His eyes search Stiles’ features.

“Derek, I’m fine,” Stiles insists. “You need to—”

There’s an anguished cry and Norman charges into the clearing, screaming, “That was my brother, you son of a _bitch!_ ”

Derek snarls and leaps for the hunter.

“Okay, that’s cool then,” Stiles declares loudly. “I’ll just chill right here.” Cursing under his breath, Stiles gets his knees beneath him, wincing as his right knee aches. Using his bound wrists to help drag him along, Stiles crawls toward Elvis’s body, ignoring the fray behind him. The glave has gone clean through Elvis’s body and Stiles makes a sound of disgust as he considers the idea of cutting the rope with its blade. Instead, he searches clumsily along Elvis’s leg, heaving a sigh of relief as he finds a long dagger tucked into his boot. He wrestles the dagger free from its sheath and awkwardly turns it around in his hands to saw at the rope. In the meantime, he turns over to see Derek now struggling with both Norman and Roy. But that still leaves one hunter missing…

The rope frays and splits beneath the knife and Stiles pulls his hands free, scooping up the dagger’s sheath and clipping it to his belt. He stands and turns to look at Derek, lips stinging as he presses them together. Every fiber of his being is telling him to go to Derek’s aid, but Leela is still trapped in her cage. Sending up a silent apology, Stiles grips the handle of the dagger and runs back the way he came, hoping to find his way back to the farmhouse. His knee hurts as he puts pressure on his right leg, but not enough to be anything worse than a bad bruise.

Roy and Norman should be busy with Derek for a while, but Derek can’t fight them off on his own for long and Judy could be anywhere. They may not use guns for their actual hunts, but the hunters have to have firearms around somewhere. Perhaps they have a basement.

It feels like Stiles has been running forever by the time he breaks through the trees. The farmhouse looks deceptively peaceful where it stands in the woods. The porch light shines like a beacon. Stiles hurries over to the house and hops the steps, reaching for the door handle. He flings the door open wide and comes face to face with the barrel of a shotgun.

“Hello, Stiles,” says Judy.

Stiles drops to his knees and there’s an explosion of sound overhead as Judy fires the shotgun where Stiles’ head was moments ago. He reaches up with his free hand to grab the barrel of the shotgun and Judy kicks hard at his midsection, setting him off-balance. Stiles lashes out with the knife as he falls back and Judy hisses with pain as a cut opens up on her forearm. Stiles scrambles to his feet and Judy cuffs him over the shoulders with the butt of her gun. Stiles throws his weight at her before she can turn the barrel toward him, making her stumble back. As Judy regains her footing, Stiles bolts for the kitchen. Judy cocks the shotgun and Stiles ducks as a cupboard is blown out behind him.

“You’re going the wrong way, Stiles,” Judy calls out.

Stiles trips his way into the dining room and finds a door beneath the staircase.

“I think you’re bluffing, Judy,” he yells back. Stiles opens the door and fistpumps as he finds a second stairway leading down. He places his hand on the railing and thuds down the wooden steps, finding himself in a cellar. Row upon row of shelves line the cellar like a maze of pickle jars and wine. Stiles crouches low among them and hurries toward the back of the cellar as he hears Judy’s feet fast on the steps. Stiles clamps his free hand over his mouth to keep his breathing quiet and his heart thuds in his ears. His eyes search in the darkness for any signs of a cabinet where guns could be.

“Where are you, Stiles?” Judy says in a sing-song voice. “You can’t hide here forever.”

Stiles holds his breath and removes his hand from his mouth, reaching over to silently pluck a jar of pickled beets from its shelf. Turning back toward the wall farthest from him, Stiles throws the jar, hearing it smash against the cement. There’s a flurry of movement and Stiles makes a break for the back of the cellar, cheering inwardly as he finds a cabinet. He pulls open the door and makes a distressed sound in his throat. There are no guns; only wolfsbane and mountain ash. On impulse, Stiles grabs a bag of mountain ash and shoves it in his pocket before he turns back toward the stairs, hunching down low. Judy cocks the shotgun, fires, and Stiles is rained with broken glass and vinegar. Stiles gives up all pretense of stealth and begins sprinting toward the stairs. Judy runs toward his flank and tackles him in the stairwell, sending him careening into the steps. At first, Stiles hurls his feet and elbows at her, trying to knock her away, but once he sees her trying to point the gun at him, Stiles begins grabbing for her limbs instead, clinging to her like a limpet.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Judy yells.

Stiles wraps his legs around her. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t Roy ever hug you like this?” Judy gets her elbow in Stiles’ face and his lip begins bleeding freely again. He closes his mouth, gathering a good quantity, and blows it out between his lips, spraying Judy’s face with blood. She closes her eyes and rears back and Stiles immediately shoves her away, knuckles going white around the handle of his dagger as he clambers up the stairs. Judy fires blindly at a step below him and his calf is pelted with splinters.

From the dining room, Stiles goes to the staircase that leads up to the second storey, ascending as fast as his feet will carry him. He opens the first door he reaches: a bathroom. He goes to the next door and discovers a bedroom. Stiles puts the dagger in its sheath at his waist and opens the closet doors, pushing hangers full of clothes around in search of a weapons’ case. Nothing. He drops to his knees and looks under the bed, seeing a long, dark shape. Stiles reaches out blindly, finding a handle, and pulls the case out from its shelter. His fingers fumble at the clasps, almost shaking with anticipation as he lifts the lid and heaves out a great sigh. There’s a double rifle and box magazines packed neatly inside. Stiles picks up the rifle and shifts the lever above the trigger guard, breaking open the barrel to attach a box magazine. Once it’s closed, Stiles loads a couple rounds and slings the strap over his shoulder. He hasn’t heard Judy in a while, but that brings him no comfort.

Stiles goes to the bedroom window and opens it up, letting the rifle dangle as he takes up the dagger again to cut the mesh screen away. Replacing the knife, Stiles crawls out onto the roof and makes his way over to the awning above the porch. He crawls down to the end of it carefully, bringing himself as close to the ground as possible before he lets himself drop down, knees bent to absorb the impact. Stiles rolls as he hits the grass, but his ankles still protest the distance with a sharp twinge of pain. Regardless, Stiles forces himself to his feet and runs toward the barn.  

 

The door to the barn is unlocked, opening easily beneath Stiles’ hand. He peeks through the doorway cautiously before slipping inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Leela?” he calls. He walks quickly toward the cages, lifting the rifle in his hands. Yellow eyes glow out at him. “Leela, get back. I’m going to shoot off the latch.”

Leela’s eyes widen with alarm and she shouts, “Stiles, get down!”

He drops immediately as a gun fires and he feels tiny flecks of buckshot scrape superficial wounds across his back. Stiles rolls to his feet and sees Judy marching toward him from around the corner of Leela’s cage. Her face is streaked with Stiles’ blood like war paint.

Stiles raises his gun, fitting the butt against his shoulder and pointing the barrel at her chest with his finger laying parallel to the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”

“You won’t shoot me, kid,” says Judy.

Stiles falters and he hates himself for the hesitation when Judy grabs the end of his gun and points it at the ground before she swings her shotgun around to hit Stiles in his bruised jaw. He falls against Leela’s cage, grabbing the bars for support, and Judy reaches to twist a hand in Stiles’ hair, tugging hard.

“You like to think you’re so tough, but you’re just a coward and a child,” Judy spits. “So where is he now, huh? That werewolf you love so much. He’s not going to save your ass this time.”

Stiles wriggles in Judy’s grip and says, “I don’t need him to save me.”

Judy laughs. “You really think so? And why is that?”

Stiles presses the barrel of his rifle into the flesh just above Judy’s knee. “Because I’m going to save _him._ ” He pulls the trigger and the butt of the gun kicks back against his shoulder. Judy screams with pain, releasing him as she falls back. Stiles immediately grabs for her shotgun and throws it down the hall before he looks down at the mess of Judy’s leg as she writhes. His dad taught him about shooting and took him to the gun range from time to time. He told Stiles where to shoot to incapacitate, not kill. There’s a lot of blood, but not enough to suggest Stiles ruptured her femoral artery. Stiles takes off his plaid shirt and wraps it around Judy’s leg, tying it tight with the sleeves.

“You bastard,” she sobs. “You _bastard._ ”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles turns to Leela. “Now let’s try this again,” he says. Leela moves as far back in her cage as she can and Stiles takes careful aim at the latch before he fires. The cage door shudders and Stiles pulls it open wide. “Don’t stick around for the party; go to your pack. I’ll take care of Derek.”

Leela steps out of her cage and lays her hand on Stiles’ gently, meeting his eyes. “ _Thank you_.”

Stiles winks. “I told you I keep my promises.”

Leela gives him a heartfelt smile before she runs. She doesn’t look back.

Stiles sighs and follows her out of the barn, eyes scanning the woods before him. He can hear snarling and growling in the distance, so he starts jogging toward it, weaving through the trees. The commotion is a good sign; Leela would have headed in the opposite direction of the noise and if Derek was dead, Roy would have nothing to growl at. Stiles grips the rifle tighter as he draws closer to the din, and soon he can see through the trees where Derek and Roy are grappling with each other in the leaves.

Norman is laying off to the side unmoving, either dead or unconscious. But Derek is in rough shape. His jacket has been discarded and his t-shirt is in ribbons, blood soaking into the fabric of his clothes from open gashes that aren’t healing. It seems like every time Derek opens a new wound on Roy, it’s gone seconds later. He may as well be doing nothing. Stiles crouches among the trees and aims his rifle at the tangle of limbs. They’re moving too quickly for Stiles to be sure he won’t hit Derek. He curses. They need a distraction.

Stiles jumps out of the trees. “Hey, fuck-face! Remember me?”

Roy turns instinctively toward his voice and Stiles fires a bullet into the meat of his shoulder, making him howl out in pain and rage.

“Derek!” Stiles drops the gun and reaches out with one hand while the other goes to his pocket. Derek leaps for him and clasps their hands together as Stiles’ other hand brings up a fistful of mountain ash. He remembers what Scott told him Jennifer and Morrell could do and he throws the ash into the air, picturing a perfect, protective circle around him and Derek. For a moment, it seems like the ash is going to scatter to the wind, but then it settles down in a solid perimeter around them. “ _Yes!_ Did you see that? I am so bad-ass!” Stiles turns to Derek, grinning widely, but the grin falters when he sees that Derek is hunched over, panting for breath. “Derek?”

Derek looks up at him with human features, all except for his bright blue eyes that gleam in the darkness. He looks exhausted and Stiles thinks he might see the white of bone through a few of the tears.

“No, no, don’t give up on me now, buddy,” Stiles says with consternation. “I need you, man.”

Derek shakes his head, gripping Stiles’ hand tighter. “He’s too strong. I can’t take him on my own.”

“What about my rifle?” Stiles asks. “Can you smell wolfsbane on the bullets?”

“Only trace amounts. Enough to slow the healing, but not enough to kill him.”

Stiles frowns, looking out at Roy, who circles the circumference of the mountain ash like a caged beast, snarling. His red eyes glow like the lights on an ambulance. With Roy’s face warped and his gaping maw full of fangs, he looks rabid. Stiles imagines that this image is all he knows of werewolves. Maybe then he would side with the hunters.

He gives Derek’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Rest up. Heal up. I’ve got a plan.”

“Stiles, what are you doing?” Derek looks at him with alarm.

“I’m sorry, Derek.” Stiles slips his hand from Derek’s and takes up his rifle, cocking it as he approaches the edge of the circle.

A low, angry rumble rolls out of Derek’s chest. “Stiles, don’t you _dare!_ ”

Stiles bolts and he hears Derek shout his name behind him. Roy reacts to Stiles exactly the way a wild animal would: chase. Stiles wends through the forest, dodging trees, and he hears Roy gaining on him rapidly. Stiles twists around and shoots, catching Roy in the side, but the werewolf is undeterred. Swearing, Stiles presses faster, pretends he’s doing sprints for Coach in lacrosse practice. He rounds a bend through a cluster of trees and turns around to shoot at Roy again. This time, the bullet catches Roy in the shin and he topples to the ground. Stiles stops and takes aim now, shooting Roy in the back, then in the gut. Roy wheezes, blood dripping from his mouth as he glares at Stiles. He starts picking himself back on his feet and Stiles starts running full tilt back toward the mountain ash circle. Moments later, he hears Roy careening after him.

Stiles yells, “Get ready, Derek!”

The circle and Derek’s anxious figure come into sight and Stiles almost sobs with relief. This is the home stretch. Roy is hot on his heels and as the last of the distance closes between Stiles and the circle, he swings out his legs and slides like a baseball player, skidding through the mountain ash circle and breaking it. Roy lunges for them.

“ _Down!_ ”

Derek sinks low on his knees in a crouching position, claws held out in front of him as Roy sails overhead. Reaching up, Derek slices effortlessly through Roy’s stomach and abdomen. Roy crashes to the earth behind them in a heap and Derek instantly goes to pin his arms, holding the alpha prone on the ground. Roy’s head is tipped back, bearing his throat, and Derek raises a clawed hand. He meets Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles nods. “Do it.”

Derek stares at Stiles, then back down at Roy, frozen. Stiles opens his mouth, but then a figure is dropping down from the trees above them and slashing a dark-skinned hand across Roy’s throat.

Leela stands tall, claws bloody, and turns to face Stiles. Her yellow eyes burn red and she grins. “Did you really think I would just leave the two of you behind?”

Stiles makes an indignant sound and throws his hands in the air. “Well a little help would have been appreciated sooner! Like when Roy was kicking Derek’s ass.”

Derek climbs to his feet and steps closer to Leela. “What about your pack?” he asks.

Leela shrugs. “Hopefully my alpha will still accept me. But there was no way I was letting that bastard stay alive and you weren’t looking so keen on finishing him yourself.”

Derek shakes his head. “No. Thank you.”

Leela smirks at Stiles. “Consider my debt repaid.”

“Yeah, that’s cool.” Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “Just conveniently swoop in at the last minute like every other werewolf I know.”  

Leela looks at Derek and Stiles in turn. “Take care of yourselves.” And with a final smile, she runs from the forest clearing.

Stiles hauls himself to his feet painfully and takes Derek’s hand. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They walk through the woods in silence, directing each other by lightly pulling on their hands. After the night’s mayhem, the farmhouse looks like paradise when the porch light blinks happily at them in the darkness. Derek sits on the porch steps while Stiles wanders inside, looking in the kitchen for a telephone. The phone is an old model mounted on the wall with a long, spiraling cord attached to the receiver. Stiles holds it against his ear and punches in the familiar buttons of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. The phone rings twice on the other end before there’s a soft click and an achingly familiar voice.

“Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. This is Stilinski speaking.”

The noise Stiles makes is halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It’s me, Dad.”

 

The knife is still clipped to Stiles’ waist, but the double rifle lays next to him on the porch as he sits beside Derek. He told his dad a little of what happened and stayed on the line long enough so that he could track their location, so now they’re just waiting for the squad cars to arrive. His dad said they’d take a little over an hour. Derek is quiet, contemplative, and adrenaline is still thrumming through Stiles’ veins.

“I was a shit alpha,” Derek says after a long minute. “That’s why I couldn’t kill Roy. I don’t want to try again. I meant it when I said I don’t want power anymore. I was never meant to be an alpha.”

“You’ve been a great alpha lately,” Stiles says, but Derek shakes his head.

“I have an alpha already. I don’t need to become one.”

“You mean Scott?”

“I mean Laura,” Derek says. “I’m a part of Scott’s pack and I will follow him, but he’s not my alpha like Laura was. No one could replace her.”

Stiles’ eyes soften and he leans to the side so that their shoulders bump together. “I get it.”

Derek turns his head to face him. “You were brave tonight. Stupid and borderline _insane_ , but brave.”

Stiles grins. “You may as well be describing yourself there.”

Derek laughs and it’s a soft sound, caressing Stiles’ ears. His heart clenches in his chest and he glances at the werewolf. Words dance on the tip of Stiles’ tongue and he starts to speak, then falters. Tries again.

“Hey, Derek?”

Derek looks at him and hums softly in acknowledgement.

Stiles clasps his hands in front of him, eyes fixed on his fidgeting fingers as he stumbles over his words. “I know that Morrell could probably list a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t be making any judgement calls right now, but I just wanted to get this out before the adrenaline leaves and the self-doubt comes crawling back in. Hell, I think right now I’m better equipped to make decisions than I’ve been in _months_.”

“What’s on your mind?” Derek asks.

Stiles deflates a little and turns to look Derek in the eye. “We’re damaged goods, you and I. Between the two of us, we could keep the world’s psychologists in business for years. Like, we need serious therapy.”

Derek raises his eyebrows expectantly. “But…?”

Stiles drops his gaze. “I don’t know if I can be fixed. I honestly don’t. And I don’t know if you can be fixed either. Maybe broken things aren’t meant to be fixed.” Taking a deep breath, he lifts his chin to face Derek again. “But I’d like to try, and I think that we’re better together than when we’re apart. I’m tired of being alone and I think you are too. So maybe we can not-be-alone together?”

Derek stares at him. “Yeah.”

Stiles eyes widen. “ _Yeah?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ” Derek coughs, nodding once. “I think I’d like that.”

“You’re not worried I’ll start massacring people?”

“You’ve already gotten that out of your system.”

A startled laugh breaks out of Stiles and he gapes at Derek with disbelief.

“And besides,” Derek continues, “I trust you.”

Heat floods Stiles’ cheeks and he nudges Derek playfully. “From you, Hale, that’s practically a love declaration.”

“Maybe it is.”

Stiles blinks with astonishment, meeting Derek’s earnest eyes, and then he slips his hand between them, resting it on top of Derek’s and lacing their fingers together. “Then I trust you too.”

Derek ducks his head and smiles, _truly_ smiles, and it’s like the world stops turning. It’s small, ephemeral, and it’s not particularly bright or happy. No, Stiles changes his mind. The world hasn’t stopped; it’s turning backwards, like there’s a Superman flying round and round to turn back time and save Lois Lane. It takes years off of Derek’s face, erasing the lines of stress and guilt. Streaked with blood and dirt, it’s one of the most beautiful things Stiles has ever seen.

Before the nerve leaves him, Stiles says, “Kiss me.”

Derek turns that smile on him and Stiles feels his heart thud hard in his chest, thinks he sees Derek’s eyes flicker downward before their eyes meet once more. “Where?”

“On the cheek.” Stiles tilts his head a little, presenting his undamaged cheekbone, and he sees the corner of Derek’s mouth quirk with amusement before he leans in. On impulse, Stiles turns toward Derek at the last second, catching his lips in a soft, but brief kiss. “Tricked you.”

Derek huffs a laugh, leaning back. Smirking, he says, “Guess I really have to learn not to trust a fox.”

Stiles grins and chases after him, bumping their foreheads together gently. “ _We’ll fool everyone._ ”

Derek cups his jaw gingerly and presses a chaste kiss to his mouth. The pressure stings against Stiles’ bitten lip, but it’s the best kiss he’s shared in his life.

“What happens after this?” Derek asks against his mouth.

“Well,” Stiles says, “after Dad takes our statement, the first thing I’m going to do when I get home is take some Adderall and have a shower. After that, I’m going to eat and have my adrenaline crash, sleep out some of the withdrawal, probably wake up in the middle of the night screaming and have a massive panic attack when everything settles in. Then I’ll have a bunch of sessions with Morrell.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Derek says.

“Do what alone?”

“All of it,” Derek replies. “That is, if you want to.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows lecherously. “Even the shower?”

“Not the shower, but the rest of it.” Derek brushes Stiles’ cheek with his thumb. “I don’t want you to wake up alone, and I can’t say I’d mind having confirmation that you’re okay too.”  

Stiles grins and pecks Derek’s lips again. “Who would have thought that Derek Hale is secretly a sap?”

“Careful.” Derek thumbs Stiles’ lower lip next to the bite. “This might need stitches.”

“Excuses. Too much for you already?”

“You’ve always been too much.”

Headlights shine through the trees and they part without preamble, though Stiles keeps a hold of Derek’s hand. The first cruiser pulls around the bend and parks in the driveway behind the trucks. The passenger door opens immediately and Scott practically falls out of the vehicle, shouting Stiles’ name. The sheriff gets out of the driver’s seat next, his eyes immediately falling to his son and filling with relief. Three cruisers pull up behind Stiles’ dad and Stiles turns to Derek with a small smile, squeezing his hand.

“Ready to go home?” he asks.

“I’ve been ready for _days_ ,” says Derek.

Scott and Stiles’ dad race over to the porch and pull Stiles into a tight hug before they clap Derek on the back, checking over his injuries. Stiles never lets go of him once.

This could either be the start of something amazing or a complete disaster. Stiles was right: it may be impossible to fix either of them. But as Stiles watches Derek smile, he can’t bring himself to regret his decision for a second because for the first time in far too long, he feels hope.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://thecomedownchampion.tumblr.com/)!


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